


Psychedelic

by bumbleflight



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, M/M, dead people ig
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:22:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25750531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumbleflight/pseuds/bumbleflight
Summary: “Pop-tarts?” Frank asked, on the brink of disgust as Gerard proceeded to eat another package raw. “Dead for months, and you chose pop tarts?”________In which Gerard is a ghost, and Frank lives in a haunted house.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Pop tarts?” Frank asked. “Dead for months, and you chose pop tarts?”

It was a little past midnight when Frank awoke.

He’d been dreaming about caves or something of the sort - claustrophobia and muddy - and was rather relieved for it to end. Not that he wasn’t one for nature, or anything, but there was something about being trapped in a dark, earthy hole that just didn’t vibe right. It felt as if he’d been buried alive.

Shivering a little, Frank pulled up the blankets he’d kicked away back over his chest. Even in the dead of summer, his room was freezing cold. His whole house was, really, chilling everyone inside to the bone. It probably had something to do with the ghosts.

Yawning, Frank rubbed at his eyes and scrunched up his face. His legs felt positively frozen to pieces and he curled them closer slowly, as moving too quickly would snap off. Layers of sweatpants weren’t helping him anymore – the chill still got through.

The whiny, empty twangs of an amp-less guitar hit him a few moments later, and he sighed, letting the sad notes fill the room. The song sounded vaguely familiar, but Frank was unable to distinguish it with the incredible number of mistakes being made throughout the piece. It was horrible, really. Frank could have done a better job with his toes.

The sound was soft, but not soft enough for him to sleep through. Slowly stretching up into a sitting position, Frank managed to locate the culprit in the dark. He couldn’t make out too much beside their figure, hunched over, sitting hauntingly alone.

“Can you stop?” It wasn’t the kindest of requests, but fuck it, Frank was tired and needed his rest. “You’re in the wrong part of the house, anyway. And don’t touch my guitar.”

The figure jumped; obviously unaware they were being watched. They didn’t put down the guitar, however, simply sitting up a little straighter. “Can you help me with this? It sounds wrong.” As they shifted in the dim light, Frank was able to make out a mess of dark hair. The guy didn’t look too old, which was odd in a place like this where the average age was eighty. It wasn’t unusual for the occasional middle-aged ghost to appear, but teenage was something else.

“No shit,” Frank replied, hauling his ass out and bed. “I don’t know what you were trying to play, but I’ll tell you right now, I’m in drop C.” Snatching back his guitar, Frank took notice of the guy’s shirt and almost burst out into a laugh. Clad in a polo and khakis – all very messy and scuffed up – the guy looked as if he’d just lost a fight at a catholic boarding school. “Whose ass are you kissing with those clothes?” Frank knew he was being rude, but it was the middle of the night and he was fucking cold.

The guy grinned, raising his brow. “No one, I swear! These are the only pants I’ve got.” His smile was weird and lopsided, and Frank noticed that all in all, he didn’t look too worse for wear. Frank had only seen two younger ghosts before – one of which had showed up bloody and mangled from a car wreck. The other was hairless and crippled from years of terminal illness. This one must have been a quick death. Stroke, perhaps?

The idea was dismissed quickly. People didn’t have strokes in their teenage years, did they? “I would offer you some new clothes, but I doubt they’d fit.” Frank said curtly, before sitting down on his bed. Being short was both a curse and a blessing when it came to sharing clothes. Not that he’d had much (if any) experience in that, living alone with his dad and all. “Why don’t you go downstairs? There’s obviously someone here looking for you.”

The guy looked hesitantly before asking, “Can I stay for now? It’s like a fucking therapy session down there. I swear, Mikey’s worse than my parents.”

Frank almost laughed. “Mikey?” he echoed curiously.

“He’s my brother, and he’s an asshole. But I guess I’m glad he did this, ‘cause now I’m not completely dead, you know? Resurrected and all.”

Frank snorted. “You’re still completely dead. I can promise you that.”

“Oh, whoops. Well, that sucks.” The guy sighed, before extending a hand. “I’m Gerard. Very sorry for waking you.” He didn’t seem even remotely apologetic, though.

Frank took it cautiously, trying his best not to flinch at the icy skin. God, this guy was as cold as - well, as cold as a dead body. “Frank.” He paused, yawning and looking longingly at his pillow. Nothing appealed to Frank more in life than death and sleep. And sometimes dogs. “Don’t do anything noisy again. And for Christ’s sake, don’t fuck with more of my stuff. That guitar isn’t cheap.”

“Alright, got it.”

“I’m serious.” Frank could faintly hear his father’s voice downstairs, giving someone - who Frank supposed must be Mikey - a tour. He guessed they’d taken a break from summoning to visit the majestic, high-ceilinged bathrooms. Mikey had arrived on their doorstep last night - a scrawny young man with thick glasses and a nervous frown. He’d given Frank a sort of pitying smile, which had not been appreciated in the slightest.

Usually, Frank wasn’t invested in his father’s clients. But something about tonight’s séance made his skin crawl. Séance’s weren’t for kids; they were for a broken couple mourning a lost spouse, or maybe a young family wanting to visit a grandparent. Either way, they were always very old people. Yet this client had to be Frank’s age, if not younger. And to top it off, the ghost he was summoning – Gerard – was young as well. Nothing about this felt right.

Some called his dad’s summoning creepy, but in general, Frank found it nice. At sixteen, he wasn’t familiar with any of the deceased, so Frank never had any reason to go down into the basement where the séances took place. However, giving other people another chance to speak with their dead friends usually didn’t result in ghosts touching his guitar.

His fucking guitar, of all things! Frank couldn’t think of anything worse to mess with.

Of course, the occasional old woman would get lost and Frank would have to direct her back toward the basement. That didn’t happen often, though, and he usually slept as peacefully as one could in a haunted house. This past winter, an old man had insisted that the house was his and that Frank was the one who should leave. No one had ever wanted to stay in Frank’s room because of Frank, though. It was an unusual feeling.

“Am I bothering you?” Gerard asked, tearing Frank away from his thoughts. Glancing up, Frank watched as Gerard wrung his hands nervously (and stupidly, because anything done in khaki pants looked stupid). “I can definitely go if I’m in the way, or anything.”

And out of curiosity more than anything else, Frank answered, “No,” because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken with someone his age, much less someone his age who truly wanted to be around him. Even if that was only because they were hiding from their brother, it was still something. “No more talking, though. I’m going to fucking sleep.”

“Dually noted.” Gerard said, with such happiness and gratitude in his voice that Frank couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

It wasn’t too much warmer under the covers, but it was enough to make him fall back asleep.

•••

Frank awoke for the second time that day, only to be blinded with sunlight.

The permanently shut curtains were now drawn up, revealing gleaming windows that spilled brightness to every corner in the room. Frank’s hidden, dusty shelves were now in the spotlight, showcasing how long it had been since he’d organized. The light was like liquid fire – seeping behind his eyeballs and into his skull. Frank hated it, squinting in the orange haze and pushing the hair out of his eyes. “What the fuck.”

Gerard hadn’t left overnight. He was still here, sitting in Frank’s room, at Frank’s desk, and with Frank’s pencil in his hand. Way to make yourself at home.

To be honest, Frank had never seen a ghost up close before. From a distance, sure, he’d seen plenty. But not from four feet away, staring right back at him. Nothing about Gerard seemed like he was dead. His face was as transparent as Frank’s was, with a bit more marks and imperfections above his pointy nose. The guy was dressed in old jeans and a T-shirt – not exactly the usual hospital gown or pajamas. Frank guessed that everyone showed up in their post-death attire, seeing as he’d never caught a ghost in their funeral dress. Then again, there was a first time for everything; maybe Gerard wanted to be buried in his mis-match socks.

Everything about him just seemed so alive – even the odd expression he was currently pulling. Frank guessed that he was trying to make a sympathetic face, but the fucker just looked amused. “In my defense, you seemed like you had an awful deprivation of vitamin D. Really nasty, pale skin.” He paused, biting the inside of his cheek to hide a smile. Jesus, had it gotten to the point where a ghost was calling Frank pale?

“Yeah, okay,” Frank snapped, glancing down at his arms. They weren’t that pale, only minorly straining against the blue veins running through them. “I also said not to touch my shit.” Slinking back down, Frank pulled the blankets over his head, verbalizing his discomfort with a groan.

“Jesus, you’re like a vampire,” Gerard laughed, mimicking Frank. “Aw fuck, sunlight! Hiss!” Despite his teasing words, he reached over to draw the curtains closed above Frank. Darkness swallowed the room once more, relaxing Frank.

“That’s not funny,” Frank grumbled with annoyance, deciding that he wasn’t going to sleep like this and pulling the covers back down. “Stop touching my stuff.”

Gerard ignored him, continuing to rustle through the papers. “As fascinating as your tenth-grade geometry is, I may be vandalizing the backs. But you failed most of these anyway, so I was assuming you wouldn’t mind.” There was a tiny giggle, followed by more rustling paper.

“I vandalized your mom,” In Frank’s defense, he wasn’t fully awake yet. “Show me what you’re drawing.”

Gerard sighed, holding out a piece of paper. He was far enough away that Frank had to get out of bed to reach it, making him huff with the effort. It was a simple drawing of some weird monster-like shit, and Frank glanced at it briefly, before putting it down on the mattress so he could get a better view.

“It’s weird,” Frank admitted, not looking away from the piece as Gerard laughed. “But sort of cool. Can I keep it?”

There was a nod of affirmation as Frank folded up the paper and tucked it in his sweatshirt pocket.

“Go for it.”

Seriously, Frank was going to look at this shit all day. Not that he had much else to do. Maybe he’d stick it on the wall – if he could find room, that was.

“I’m going to go grab something to eat,” He hesitated, tilting his head at Gerard. “Do you want anything? Can you even eat?” In all his years of living with the dead, Frank had never spoked to a ghost quite so personally as he was talking to Gerard right now. It was usually just ‘yeah, the basement is that way,’ or ‘no, I’m not your grandson, sorry.’ But nothing like this.

Frank was almost enjoying it.

It was weird, definitely. He’d never woken up with another person there. And his dad was so busy, Frank couldn’t remember the last time someone before Gerard had made him laugh. It was a big change to have someone in his room – someone listening to him. He liked the attention, and he liked it a lot.

“I’d love to try,” Gerard nodded, jumping up to follow him. The floorboards creaked under his weight. “I’m starving.”

•••

“Pop tarts?” Frank asked, on the brink of disgust as Gerard proceeded to eat another package raw. “Dead for months, and you chose pop tarts?”

Gerard frowned, washing down his food with tap water before turning back to Frank, water dripping down his chin. “Who said anything about months?”

“Well, how long has it been?” He asked. To Gerard’ great confusion, Frank had refused Gerard’s continuous offering of frozen bacon and egg yolks. The fucker wasn’t bothering to cook anything he ate, tearing his way through Frank’s kitchen.

Wiping down the sink and tossing out his trash, Gerard answered, “Two days. I saw the date on your clock.”

“Two days?” Frank didn’t believe it. It usually took months, if not years for people to find their way here. Years of wondering, undefined debt, and longing. Not two days. “How the fuck did you – your brother – find us?” No wonder Gerard looked so alive; he’d barely been dead!

“Don’t ask me,” Gerard shrugged, not complaining as Frank dragged him back upstairs. He hated being out of his room – the mere chance of running into someone else was enough to turn him off the idea of food. “I’m not the one who runs this place.”

“If you’re suggesting that I do, you’re wrong.” Frank snapped, his tone harsher than he’d intended. “I don’t do jack-shit around this place.”

“You helped me.” Gerard pointed out cordially. “That’s definitely something.”

Frank snorted. “You’re stupid.” He felt better, though.


	2. Chapter 2

Mikey wasn’t exactly having the best day of his life.

Tired, lonely, and with a cup of cold coffee in his hands, he sat on the steps of the Grigg’s house. It was a funny name for two reasons; it was owned by a man named Iero, and it was only a few letters away from being terrifying: Grimm would have been much better, despite the extra letter. 

Despite the warm summer months being in full bloom, Mikey still sported a heavy, brown coat due to the freezing interior of the home. He supposed the Grigg’s house (or Iero’s, he corrected) was cursed, in that sense. He also just liked the color brown. 

The oddity of the name Grigg’s crossed his mind quite often, but Mikey was too embarrassed to ask Mr. Iero himself why the house was named what it was. He was positive that house had worn the name at the time of purchase, but why was it still called that? Hadn’t the Iero’s lived there long enough for the locals to learn?

Setting down his coffee, Mikey stood up and shook out his arms. He could go for a nice walk. Being in the house all night had made him feel stiff, both with stress and terror. The basement of the old, stony house was unlike anything he’d ever seen before, like last night’s séance – if you could call it that. Mikey was fairly certain the old man was just cheating him out of his money, but there was something awfully pressing Mikey couldn’t put his finger on that made him think otherwise.

The street he had begun walking down was cracked and dirty, with dead leaves crowding the surface like lice. It was fairly early in the morning (Mikey couldn’t sleep), but the sky disagreed with the time, filling with bright blue colors as it would midday. Pulling up his camera from its permanent strap around his neck, Mikey pressed it to his eye and observed. He usually photographed people – their creased faces, their hunched shoulders – but he wouldn’t mind capturing the scene here. The winding road and crumbling stones were almost as good of storytellers as a body was.

Messing around with the light meter, Mikey snapped a few photos before giving up. He’d rather save his last ten photos for something else, like people. Stories were just empty words: Film was the best way to catch a ghost.

Almost laughing at absurdity the idea, he set off walking again. There was a small crunching noise, at the turn of the road, as if someone was walking running around the bend. And being the complete idiot he was, Mikey stepped out around the gap, and narrowly avoided crashing head first with a bike. 

A gross, mechanical clicking and crunching broke out as the bike skid to the side, prompting falling over and throwing the rider off like a wild horse. It slid a few more feet, before one of the wheels hit Mikey in the shin and came to a stop. Nothing too dramatic, but the front tire was definitely fucked.

Jumping back in surprise, Mikey stumbled, his head jerking down to his shoulder a few times. He didn’t like touching people. And while he hadn’t technically made skin contact with someone, the tire had touched him – and tires were dirty. 

“There’s not usually people here,” The rider brushed himself off, getting to his feet and looking up at Mikey. “I swear, I didn’t see you. Are you hurt? Don’t get the sheriff unless you’re really hurt.”

Sheriff? They really were in the middle of nowhere.

“I promise I’m not hurt,” Mikey assured him, despite the fact that he could not, in fact, promise that. As far as he knew, he had not been affected by the accident. But something could have happened – something he didn’t know about yet. Therefore, he shouldn’t be making promises. 

With a deep breath, Mikey cleared his mind and pulled out his wallet. Taking out a few bills, he held out his hand, desperately hoping their fingers wouldn’t touch. “For the tire,” Mikey explained. “It was my fault.”

The money was accepted without hesitation, and an out of place laugh broke out as something else fell out of Mikey’s wallet: a photo. Mikey didn’t react quick enough, and the guy managed to catch a good look, asking, “Who’s that? Your boyfriend?”

Mikey shook his head, frowning and shoving the small paper back in his wallet. He was careful not to let the dirty photo touch anything else inside. “That’s my brother.” The photo was of Gerard’s senior prom in a suit and tie, so the mistake was slightly justifiable in that sense. Gerard hadn’t wanted to go to the dance at all, but Mikey had dragged him along, convincing him that it was better than a night with their parents. After having his photos taken alone, Gerard had thrown them out. Later that night, Mikey had taken the photos out of the trash without his brother knowing. And now he never will, he reminded himself, letting a weird feeling settle in his stomach. 

“That’s fuckin’ weird, man. Don’t carry around sexual photos of your brother.”

“Sexual?” Mikey paused, looking offended. “That’s not a sexual photo.” There was a small smudge of dirt above the guy’s dark eyebrow, and Mikey had an uncanny urge to rub it off with his thumb, despite his hate for physical contact. Dirt shouldn’t be on faces. Before he could dwell on this, though, the other spoke up.

“Hey, that’s a camera! Are you good at that stuff?”

Mikey shrugged, holding the little piece of metal closer to his chest. “I don’t know.” He was alright at photography. In seventh grade, he’d been given a film camera from his parents, and the undying obsession with it had simply followed. He wasn’t sure if he should reveal this to the stranger, though.

“You should come take photos of me sometime – I’d pay you and stuff.” The guy said, cracking a shit-eating grin as if he fully expected Mikey to immediately agree and start the shoot right here. “And my name’s Pete, by the way!”

Raising a brow, Mikey frowned. “What?” He asked. “Are you a clothing model?”

“Oh!” Pete broke into a breathy laugh, scrunching up his nose and shaking his head. “No – I’m not like that. I need good pics if I ever want to go pro in skating or,” he nodded at the bike. “BMX.”

Mikey didn’t really know what a BMX was, but assumed it had something to do with the broken bike. And before he can come up with a good reason to refuse, Mikey found himself agreeing. “Does tomorrow work?” 

Pete’s face lit up, immediately erasing any of Mikey’s previous hesitation. “That’d be great! Same time?”

Mikey nodded. “But walk your bike this time.” 

•••

Mikey fell asleep when he got back to the house. After all, he hadn’t slept the night before, and his bed was looking rather comfortable (ghosts or not). But his dreams were weird and full of knives; rather unrestful in Mikey’s opinion. 

Giving up on sleep, Mikey got out of bed. He had to bring his own food to this place (Mr. Iero said he could feed him, but it came at a cost Mikey couldn’t afford), and so he grabbed a cup of fuckin’ noodles and went upstairs to microwave it. Yeah, he probably looked like absolute shit, but whatever. This house was full of voo doo magic and shit – maybe the magical spirit-men could cast a spell to make him more presentable.

Mikey’s point was further proven as he ran into a boy in the kitchen, who seemed to be taking something out of the fridge. The kid was skinny and small, with jet black, wire-straight hair. It wasn’t hard to recognize him as Mr. Iero’s kid from yesterday, but a small part of Mikey still wasn’t sure. It could be another boy, one Mikey had yet to meet. 

Or maybe a ghost?

“The fuck are you staring at,” The kid grumbled, sighing a bit and putting back whatever he was taking out, before eyeing the microwave meal in Mikey’s hands and sighing some more. “Help yourself to the food; my dad’s crazy.”

Mikey concluded: this kid was definitely not a ghost, definitely Mr. Iero’s son, and definitely terrifying. His eyes found a safe location on the ground to settle – Frank’s eyes were too intense and judging. 

“Um, thank you,” Mikey managed to spit out, awkwardly putting water in his food and throwing it in the microwave. He didn’t want to touch someone else’s food. “Yes.”

“What are you? Eighteen?” The boy asked, giving Mikey a once over and making his skin crawl. Why the did this kid care? He was probably like, twelve.

“Seventeen,” Mikey corrects him, and the boy looks disgusted. Slightly concerned, maybe. “How old are you?”

Completely ignoring Mikey’s question, Mr. Iero’s son tilted his head and continued on. “Why’d your brother die so young?”

Does he know I killed Gerard? Flashed traitorously through Mikey’s mind, and he pushed it away aggressively. He did not kill Gerard. He had absolutely no involvement in Gerard’s death. Probably. “My brother? Your dad should know better than to share his client’s information with kids.”

“You don’t make the rules in someone else’s house,” The boy pointed out sourly, making Mikey frown.

“Then your dad should be making better rules,” He replied curtly. “It’s his house, not yours, right?”

“He bought it,” The kid answered, which Mikey realized, wasn’t quite the same thing. 

•••

Another long night of fake summoning came and passed. Him and Mr. Iero sat on unfolded lawn chairs in the dingy basement, lighting candles around a Ouija board to no avail. Mr. Iero had reached a smattering of nine beers before turning in for the night, and Mikey had followed, not wanting to stay in that basement a moment longer than needed. There were no ghosts down there (of course), but there was still something wrong that Mikey didn’t want to be a part of. 

It was awfully cold on his ground-level bedroom, but anything was warmer than the lowest floor. Unslinging the camera from his neck, Mikey hung it carefully on the bedpost. He’d be sure to get more photos tomorrow. The bathroom mirror was too spotty for Mikey to check his reflection, and he noticed that he was almost out of toothpaste as he brushed his teeth. While he was leaving the bathroom, a sick feeling twisted his gut and he barely make it to the toilet before vomiting. Whatever he’d eaten earlier had probably expired years ago. After a few dry heaves, Mikey stood up and washed out his mouth in the sink, his throat feeling as if it were on fire.

He was probably fine, but that didn’t stop the entirety of WebMD’s knowledge from racking its way through his brain. Almost anything could make you puke; food poisoning, stomach cancer, ear infection – anything. Mikey didn’t feel as if he were running a fever, but he knew that you didn’t have feel the fever to have it.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Mikey closed his eyes. It was fine. He didn’t have some chronic illness, and he most certainly was not going to die.

As he finally laid down in bed, something hard pressed into his temple. At first, he’d assumed that it was just the scratchy material acting up again. But after a few twists and turns to no avail, he gave in. Lifting up the pillow, Mikey found the sheath of his knife. Even in the dim light, he could catch the unmistakable initials carved in the leather. DAW. Cranking the lamp on, Mikey glanced around the room, and then under the bed. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for – the knife, or the person who’d moved it. Either way he saw nothing, and decided on finding the blade on the following day. 

A quiet chattering of voices lightly fell through the air vents, and Mikey pretended that it wasn’t his dead brother’s voice he was hearing as he fell asleep. This place was going to turn him insane.


	3. Chapter 3

From the day she was born, Lindsey had three things ironed into her brain.

Don’t cheat, don’t steal, and don’t fuck with the Grigg’s house.

Well, those weren’t the exact words. It was probably something closer to ‘don’t trespass,’ or ‘don’t go onto the neighbor’s property because they give us the heebie jeebies,’ but the point got across either way. It was a small town, and everyone knew that people who went in there didn’t come back. And if they did, they were changed. Lindsey didn’t want to risk it.

Of course, she’d been close to the house before. She’d seen it and all (even touched it once as a kid), but it had only gotten worse over the years. Ivy strangled the brick walls and black shutters along all four walls of the giant home, and Lindsey was fairly certain the roof was cracked or slightly caved in on one end. The lawn looked dingy and soaked in weeds, and the road leading up and back from the isolated home was crumbled and ancient. 

The Grigg’s house looked abandoned from outside, but Lindsey knew there were people living within. The Ieros, for one, and their everchanging guests. Customers, if you could even call it that. Selling ghosts and magic – it was despicable really, to take such advantage of the mentally disabled, or anyone foolish enough to believe in that.

Putting the last egg from the coop into her Home Depot bucket, Lindsey ducked out of the hen house and stepped carefully over the electric fence. It didn’t hurt too badly if you touched it, but it was unpleasant nevertheless. The foxes, however, seemed to find it rather tolerable. Catty bastards.

“Lindsey!” A whiny voice called, making Lindsey sigh and change her path of direction. It was undoubtedly Bob, a neighboring boy of her age who’d been sent to their farm for the summer to ‘help,’ or so his family said. She knew what they really wanted, but Lindsey refused to give in. The Bryars were lovely people, but she would never wed their incompetent son.

“What,” Lindsey asked, coming out as more of a snap as she rounded the corner to the pig sty. Bob was leaning under the feed silo, unsuccessfully pushing at it. “It won’t fucking open,” He complaining, motioning to the handle. Setting down her orange bucket, Lindsey walked over and pulled off the red chain. The safety lock had still been on. “Try it now,” She suggested and Bob opened the silo, causing them both to cough as the powdery feed came out.

“This is slave labor.” Bob sighed loudly, closing the silo and picking up the feed. “Ray gets paid; I should be, too.”

“Ray’s helpful,” Lindsey shrugged. “And you can go back home anytime.” She knew he couldn’t, though. Bob’s family wouldn’t take him back until September.

“I’d kill to go back home.” The blonde boy shot back, not bothering to pour out the tray and just tossing the whole thing in. Whatever, the pigs got fed again after lunch. “I can’t believe they expect me to marry you. No offense,” He added, shooting her a wary glance. Lindsey looked away instinctively, shaking her head. She hated his weird, piercing eyes. They were like the eyes of a dead animal.

“None taken,” She replied, getting her eggs and throwing one into the pen. Her aunt’s farm only sold corn, cattle, and piglets, so the fate of chicken eggs wasn’t a pressing concern. “I don’t think I could handle living with you, either.” It had only been a week, but Lindsey had already come to her final decision. No marrying the big brute Bob, ever. “Have you seen Ray around?”

Bob nodded thoughtfully. “He was with the horses last time I caught him,” He answered, before pausing. “But he could have gone somewhere else, I guess.”

“Sounds great,” Lindsey said dryly, turning away.

•••

When she got down to the barn, Ray was already there, working a mare on the lunge line. He waved to her with his free hand, and Lindsey climbed up on the fence. She didn’t recognize the horse, with its cropped tail and unfamiliar branding. “Who’s that?” She called, trying not to laugh as she realized Ray’s hair was longer than the mare’s.

“Boarder,” He replied cordially, slowing the horse down to a walk so he could turn to face Lindsey. “From someone up the road who got flooded.”

She nodded, adding, “Bob couldn’t open the silo today. I had to help him.”

Ray smiled sympathetically. “You should go easier on him,” He suggested, wiping his upper lip on the back of his hand. “He’s trying his best, you know.”

“If that’s his best, then me and a sack of rocks should take a swim in the lake.” 

The mare dropped to her knees suddenly, and Ray pulled her back up before she could roll. “I guess we better go cool down,” He apologized, and Lindsey followed as he left the ring. She guessed it was around seven am, with the morning dew still wet on the grass. It was fairly warm today, making Lindsey increasingly tempted to shrug off her jacket. 

“Did you see the new guy over at Grigg’s?” Ray asked casually as he hooked the cross ties and got to work with a sponge. “Too young, if you ask me.” 

The dusty smell of the barn soaked into Lindsey’s lungs, and she let it. “A kid?” She didn’t want to sound so curious – after all, she hated the house. But if it had caught Ray’s eye, it probably meant something. “There shouldn’t be kids in there.”

He wrung out the sponge and moved on to the sweat scraper. The mare was standing politely, and Ray kissed the horse’s nose. “He looked older than you, but whatever you want to consider a kid.”

Lindsey frowned. She didn’t consider herself a kid, but she knew her aunt did. Then again, her aunt also believed Lindsey to be a useless farmhand who was only good for marrying out. She was determined to prove her aunt otherwise – Lindsey worked as hard as anyone else on this land, she just had to find a way to show it.

“We should warn him,” Lindsey didn’t know where the feeling came from, but she knew something bad would happen otherwise. “We need to get him out of there.”

“Are you crazy?” Ray almost laughed, finishing with the horse and throwing her halter back on. “That would involve going over to their house and talking to people there. You sure you can handle that?”

Ray had heard the most of Lindsey’s complaints and terrors of the Grigg’s house, so he knew better than anyone how much she hated it. However, she couldn’t ignore the hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Yes,” She insisted through grit teeth. It had been, what? Eight or nine years since she last went down there? That wasn’t too long ago.

They let the horse back out into a field, with Ray tying the lead in one of his fancy knots on the gate. “If it’s that important to do Linds, you should do it.”

“Do what?” Bob materialized from around the corner of the barn, making Lindsey flinch in surprise. His hands were dirty, and his blue jeans looked as if they’d lost a battle with a tractor.

“Nothing,” Lindsey replied, at the same time that Ray answered, “She’s going to the Grigg’s house.”

“That’s a fucking horrible idea,” Bob raised his brow, looking between them. “I don’t believe in any of that ghost shit, but people die there. Something about that place is cursed, Lindsey.”

“Yeah, we know,” She shot back. “But there’s someone in there right now! Don’t you think he deserves to know that stuff? That the house is dangerous and all?”

“I’m sure he knows,” Ray said softly, trying to comfort an increasingly worked up Lindsey to no avail.

“How could he?” Lindsey asked. “How could anyone who knows what’s happened at the house go inside?”

Ray was quiet, and Bob shrugged, unhelpfully offering, “Maybe he’s suicidal.”

“That’s it, we’re going,” She put down her foot, turning sharply. “We’re going right now.”

“To the Grigg’s house?” Bob asked, confused and surprised. 

Lindsey shook her head. “No.”

•••

They went to Pete’s house, instead. 

Pete seemed to be the opposite of what Lindsey would look for in a guy. He was from Chicago and had this dopey emo haircut that made him look as if he’d walked straight out of 2008. He’d never lived on a farm, and never planned to. Also, his dad was the town sheriff. 

To sum it up, Pete was chock-full of lose-lose characteristics. Lindsey still loved him, though. Her obnoxiously unwavering infatuation had been evident to her ever since they first became friends at twelve, when Pete moved here. To Pete, however, her interests remained invisible. 

“What the hell are all three of you doing here?” Pete groaned as he opened the front door. He was dressed in a t-shirt and sweats, making Lindsey wonder if they’d woken him up. It was still the morning, after all. 

“It was supposed to be just me,” Lindsey began to explain, but was cut off. 

“See, I told you he’d still be sleeping!” Bob punched her arm, and she scowled at him. “You didn’t say anything about that, idiot.”

“Well, I thought it,” Bob told her. 

Ray cut in, stepping in front of them. “We can come back later, if you want.” 

“I’m already awake,” Pete grumbled, stepping back so they could come in. “Make yourself at home, my parents are still asleep.” His long hair is standing up in the back, and Lindsey stifles a grin. 

“Having your mom is the house is a major turn off, man.” Bob said, wasting no time in flopping out on Pete’s couch. Ray made a disapproving face as Bob put his shoes on the furniture, but kept his mouth shut as he sat on the carpet next to Lindsey. Pete pulled up a chair. “What’s this all about?”

“Orgy proposal,” Bob didn’t miss a beat, replying with a completely straight face. Pete turned to Lindsey next, who told him, “We’re wondering if you’ve heard anything about a new boy? He’s staying at the Grigg’s house.”

Ray continued for her, adding, “I saw him driving in. He’s got brown hair, and he’s white.”

“Yeah, so like everyone in this town,” Bob retorted – seeming to have forgotten he’s blonde - but Pete looked deep in thought. “Does he have glasses?”

Ray thought for a moment, then answered with uncertainty: “Yes?”

“Ah, Jesus,” Pete put his hands on his thighs, and leaned forward in the chair. “I didn’t know he was staying there.” He looked genuinely disgusted, which confused Lindsey. Why would Pete care? “And so young, too! The people there are always old.”

“Obviously, you know him,” Ray observed, motioning for Pete to continue with his hand. “Care to share?”

“That rhymes,” Bob said, while Pete shook his head. “I don’t know him,” Pete insisted, chewing on his thumb. “We just ran into each other, yesterday. I’m supposed to go meet him in an hour.” There was a fresh scratch on his elbow, dripping blood onto his jeans. Lindsey pointed it out. “You okay, man?”

“Oh,” Pete glanced down, rubbing at it with a hand. “I got that when I met the guy. I guess I just keep picking at it –”

“He hurt you?” Ray asked incredulously, and Pete narrowed his eyes. “No? I would totally win in that fight, fuck you.” His defensive tone wasn’t unusual, but Lindsey knew better than to brush it off. 

“Let me see,” She stood up, suddenly concerned, and Pete reluctantly let her examine the cut. “You should probably get stiches.” The diagnosis was almost immediate. Lindsey wasn’t a doctor, but she’d dealt with enough barbed-wire cuts and pecking-order fights in her animals to know when something wasn’t going to heal on its own. 

The wound was open and hot – not huge, or anything, but definitely not small either. Pete pulled his arm back before Bob could lick it or something, tucking it neatly behind his shirt. “I’m not going to the doctor’s.” He said firmly. “If I get a gnarly scar it’ll be worth it.”

“Scar?” Ray muttered to himself. “More like sepsis.”

Pete waved his hand dismissively, and they all sat back down. He had an effect on people like that. “What’s this guy’s deal, anyway? And why does it involve me?”

Lindsey was the first to speak, pulling at one of her braids and watching him expectantly. “We’re going to talk to him. People our age shouldn’t be in that place. It’s cursed.”

“We’re coming too, you for information,” Ray elaborated, nodding at Pete. “You’ve spoken with the guy, as we know. And we just wanted to make sure he’s safe and knows what he’s getting himself into.”

Pete opened his mouth as if to object or turn them down when Bob cut in. “Because you’re the sheriff’s son, and all. I just kind of assumed you’d know because maybe your dad told you.”

Lindsey turned to Bob, flashing him a private grin. Pete loved being acknowledged for his relation to authority, and it was almost a failsafe when it came to getting something from him. As expected, Pete had a sudden change in demeanor, looking as regal as someone with shaggy hair and yesterday’s eyeliner possibly could. “Well, yeah,” He nodded, as if this were the perfect explanation to everything. “I guess that would make sense. I could talk to him.”

“You could?” Lindsey couldn’t help the excitement in her voice. The last few weeks had been painfully boring – she could go for an adventure. A tiny voice in her mind reminded her that her job wasn’t to have fun, not at all, if she wanted anything out of her farm, or if she wanted to prove anything to her aunt. But she had only just turned seventeen, and there was a long while until her eighteenth birthday where she’d have to decide between owning the farm and marrying Bob Bryar. Well, when her aunt would have to decide. If it were up to Lindsey, she would already know the answer.

“Sure,” Pete agreed, and Lindsey could just hug him. She punched Bob’s instead to rid herself of the urge. 

Bob sat up from his splayed-out position on the couch and shot Lindsey a wounded look. “That’s domestic abuse – you’re a horrible future wife.” 

“I’d rather die than marry you.” Lindsey reminded him.


	4. Chapter 4

Mikey didn’t get to the road until far past noon.

Which was extremely late, considering how he had planned on meeting Pete in the early morning. This fact didn’t seem to have affected Pete much either, however, as road was empty upon Mikey’s arrival. 

Sitting down on a stray log (those weren’t dirty, you see, because the odds of another human touching the log in this exact spot were unlikely. Humans weren’t even that dirty, when you compared them to hyenas. Not that there were hyenas around here), Mikey crossed his legs and prepared to wait. His hands fell onto his camera (out of habit, really), and he traced his fingertips along its ridges and buttons. One click, and the entire roll would be exposed to the sun: ruined. It was in his control. 

“Heyo!” 

Mikey jumped, glancing up to see Pete a few feet away from him. He hadn’t heard the guy approach, and stared at him in shock for a few moments before waving. “I forgot to load a new roll,” Mikey realized suddenly, looking down at his shoes. “There might not be much film left – I couldn’t find a room dark enough.”

“Uh, okay?” Pete asked, kicking over his bike and shoving his hands in his pockets. “We don’t have to take photos – honestly, I’d kind of forgotten about all that.”

Mikey blinked, a bit confused, before settling on a conclusion. “Okay. Goodbye,” he said as he stood, preparing to walk back to Mr. Iero’s ghost-filled home. Pete had asked him to take photos even though he didn’t want them, which was something Mikey didn’t understand. But he didn’t understand a lot of things, and learned to just accept them for what they were. 

“No, no! Hold up,” Pete sort of laughed, reaching out to grab Mikey’s arm and stop him from leaving. Mikey swung away, nearly falling as he dodged Pete’s grasp because please he really didn’t want to be touched right now. Pete sort of froze, looking between them for a moment as Mikey stared at the ground.

“Alright, I won’t do that,” Pete concluded, shaking his head slightly. “But do stay for a minute! Where are you from, anyway?”

This was a question Mikey could answer. “New York,” he said, because it was vague enough to mean anywhere in the state and not specific enough for his identity to be stolen overnight.

“New York?” Pete repeated, and Mikey was quick to add, “But not the snotty area.”

That was a lie – something Mikey wasn’t very good at. His family was definitely from the snotty area: tiny dogs and all. Pete seemed to accept it, however, and laughed. It was a comforting laugh, and Mikey liked it.

“Where do you live?” Mikey had meant it in a sort of “return-the-favor” sense, but his question ended up with a more stalker-y tone. Pete remained unfazed, and grinned. 

“Wanna see?”

Mikey didn’t, but nodded anyway. 

•••

Pete’s room was bigger than any Mikey had ever seen. And Mikey had been in the houses of many rich families, coming from a wealthy household himself. 

With stretching expanses of drywall and carpeted floor, Pete’s bed felt like the smallest attraction in an empty house. The blankets were unmade, and cheap porn magazines littered the floor. Pete didn’t seem to take any notice of them, stepping over the naked girls as one would step over clothes on the floor. Which, Pete had a lot of. Mikey was pretty sure the entire salvation army couldn’t match Pete’s collection of unwashed pants.

“So,” Pete sat down on the floor, despite the numerous couches. “Mikey, huh?”

“Yes.” Mikey said, unsure whether or not that was a question he should answer. He’d talked to Pete a bit on the way there, but hadn’t gotten much out of the boy besides that he hated school and liked weed. There was also a small lip wring on Pete’s mouth that Mikey couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off.

“What brings you here?” Pete asked, and Mikey blinked.

“You invited me.” He answered plainly. Had Pete forgotten so soon? Or maybe this was one of those rhetorical questions his mother had loved to use. Mikey knew he wasn’t supposed to answer those, but it was rather hard to tell when they happened. 

“Oh!” Pete laughed, signaling that Mikey had indeed taken the question incorrectly. “I meant, why’d you come to this town? There’s not much around here except slaughter houses and ghosts. If you believe in those!”

Mikey shrugged, looking at the floor. He didn’t want to look at the magazines and focused on Pete’s feet instead. He was wearing grey socks with a logo too small for Mikey to read in one corner. “I’m here for the money.”

“The money?” Pete asked, cocking his head. “Not to be rude, but you don’t – you know,”

“I look rich.” Mikey finished for him. “I came out here to talk to my brother, and ask about an inheritance. That’s all I can tell you.” He meant to sound firm, but Pete’s pleading eyes convinced him otherwise.

“Awe, who am I gonna tell?” Rusting through his drawers, Pete tossed a few black squares Mikey’s way. They landed on the floor. “Six pods if you tell me right now.”

Mikey glanced down and moved his feet neatly so they didn’t touch anything. “No, thank you. I can tell you if you promise not to repeat it, though. It’s quite honestly none of your business.”

Pete crossed his heart, nodding his head. “Absolutely none of my business. Now, continue.”

And so, he did. 

“My father died when I was a baby, and left his belongings to my mother. My mother had written in her will before I was born that if anything were to happen to her, all of her money would go to Gerard.”

“Gerard?” Pete cut in, and Mikey nodded. 

“Yes, he’s my brother. She died unexpectedly this fall, followed quickly by Gerard. Everything my family owns is now in his name.”

“But, he’s dead,” Pete began thoughtfully, trying to put the pieces together as quickly as he could (which was rather slow). “Aren’t there legal things against that? Wouldn’t you just get the money anyway?”

Fidgeting, Mikey bit his lip. “Yes. But, we can’t find any of it. And I have reason to believe Gerard knows where it is.”

“So, you’re going to summon his ghost to ask?” Pete sounded almost accusatory, and Mikey immediate defended himself.

“Yes. It’s the right thing to do.”

“That’s insane, man. This is like, some Goonies shit.” Pete was looking up at Mikey now from his spot on the floor, serious and attentive. “There’s something I’ve gotta tell you about that house, man. It’s fuckin’ wild. People go in there and don’t come back – I think you should give it up.”

Something about his words just seemed to wedge into Mikey’s skin, and he frowned. “It’s none of your business what I do. If you’d rather I leave, I can.”

“Whoa, whoa! Okay, sorry,” Pete said quickly, getting to his feet and brushing off his shirt. Somehow his hair got messed up while sitting – as to how, Mikey isn’t quite sure. “Want to see my bass?”

Mikey shrugged, because okay. Maybe Pete just really liked showing people things. It wasn’t that weird, much less mean anything. But there was an odd feeling in the room as Mikey followed Pete into another room, this one with foam padded walls and stacked amplifiers. A few instruments hung on the walls, but most were strewn across the floor. Pete picked one up and flipped on the amp. 

“This one’s an Ibanez from the 80s: my pride and joy. I have a thing for internal pickups, but this one’s pretty lovely.” He introduced it, showcasing the guitar in front of his body. 

To Mikey, it just looked like a hunk of metal and wood. But that all changed when Pete began to play. At first, it was just stupid little riffs and lines – then he really got into it. And Mikey couldn’t stop listening. It was too mesmerizing; the way his chest vibrated with each note, and the short buzzing of the amp when Pete moved. Mikey loved it.

But then the doorbell rang, and Mikey’s head snapped up. Pete put the guitar back on the floor, rushing toward the front door. “I bet that’s Lindsey,” he muttered, and Mikey barely had a chance to ask who Lindsey was before a tall girl ran into the room. Her and Mikey were equally shocked to see each other, however, she seemed to know who he was. Sort of.

“This is Mikey,” Pete introduced, and Mikey swore he could see some sort of angry emotion (he’s not sure of specifics) flash across Lindsey’s face before she was reaching out a hand to shake his.

“Lindsey Ballato,” she said, seeming confused on why Mikey wasn’t shaking her hand. Mikey couldn’t find the words to politely say that the idea of touching her wanted to make him vomit, so he kept his mouth shut.

“He, uh, doesn’t like to be touched.” Pete explained awkwardly, and Lindsey dropped her hand, embarrassed. 

“Sorry, Mikey,” Lindsey apologized, looking Mikey right in the face and getting way to close for comfort. Pete had been at least eight feet apart from him for the past hour, and the sudden change was too much for him. “You’re staying at the Grigg’s house, right? Do you know what goes on down there?”

“Yes,” Mikey said quietly, although he didn’t. Not really.

For some reason, he really wanted to leave. Nothing was more appealing than the idea of crawling into his bed at Mr. Iero’s home and letting the darkness of the blankets surround him. And that undying urge seemed to be manifesting itself in the form of twitchy hands and shoulders.

“Are you alright?” Lindsey asked, staring. She seemed to be trying to distinguish whether Mikey was faking his movements, or being possessed by a ghost. “Did something happen at the house? Did Mr. Iero do something to you?”

She seemed genuinely concerned, but Mikey couldn’t do anything more than shake his head. It felt as if a balloon were expanding in his chest, and the only way to keep it from popping and killing them all was to curl in on himself, and run away.

So, that’s what he did.


	5. Chapter 5

To say Frank was obsessive was an exaggeration.

Everyone had their “thing,” and Frank’s was music. That wasn’t weird, or anything, but Gerard seemed oddly fascinated in a way Frank felt wasn’t a reaction to a normal hobby. You know, as in wandering around his room for hours.

“I just don’t know how you have so many CDs!” Gerard said in awe, picking one up carefully. “And guitars! Oh, and these things. Pedals?” He held one up for Frank to see.

“Guitar pedals, yeah,” Frank confirmed, watching as Gerard examined a grey overdrive one. It might have been old and scratched, but Frank swore by it when playing anything. All songs could use the extra crunch.

“What’s this?” A CD was placed by Frank’s side on the bed, which he had suggested Gerard sleep on last night. Frank had taken the floor instead, but his aching shoulders and neck weren’t sure they could take another night down there. Gerard insisted Frank shouldn’t sleep there, but hey: the weakest person got the bed – and Gerard won that competition in the sense that he was already dead. “There’s no label.”

“No clue,” Frank admitted, because yeah, he was fucking unorganized and didn’t have the time to label his discs. “Ten bucks if you guess it right.” He said as he grabbed the player.

Gerard bit his lip, looking up thoughtfully. “Um, Iggy Pop.”

“Ew, no.” Frank didn’t have to wait for the CD to start to know the answer. “Definitely not.”

“What’s wrong with Iggy Pop?” 

Before he had a chance to answer, the album began with a clattering of guitars. It was that hard kind of punk you enjoyed but were never quite good enough to play. 

“Mercyful Fate!” Gerard realized, to Frank’s great surprise. “I know this band, they’re cool.”

“Shit, you’re good.” Pulling out a sharpie, Frank stopped the player and began to write the name on the CD when he was stopped by a hand on his arm.

“Can I draw on it?” Gerard asked hesitantly. “Like, sort of album art? But on the disc.” He looked nervous to ask, and Frank almost felt bad. He didn’t mean to intimidate anyone. 

“Sure,” Frank said quickly. “Knock yourself out.” He held handed over the CD, only for Gerard to push it back toward him. “Not now, though. I want to finish the song.”

Snorting, Frank started the player up again. Within a few moments, the sound of guitars was back, fuzzy and distorted. It was a sweet sound, really. Gerard seemed to enjoy it as well, and Frank watched as he nodded his head to the beat, smiling a private smile. It was cute, in a way.

The posters lining his walls seemed to watch over them as they sat and listened. Light shone down harshly from the single lightbulb above Frank’s head, as well as the sharp beams of sun stabbing through the cracks of his curtains. Say what you want, but sunlight was horrible. Frank would take LEDs any day. 

After a few moments, Frank realized that Gerard was humming along. And maybe Frank was lonely, or maybe he was just really happy to have found someone that shared his music taste – but in this moment, Frank didn’t think he could wish for anything better.

•••

Frank was still awake at three am, coughing. 

It wasn’t one of those gross, snotty coughs you get in the winter, but closer to the dry heave of an asthmatic. Despite being a ghost, Gerard still felt the need to sleep. He woke up, however, at the sounds Frank was making and walked over to where he laid on the floor.

“That’s it,” Gerard said, reaching out a hand in the moonlit room. Frank took it, hauling himself into a sitting position. “You’re obviously sick: you get the bed.”

“Mm, no.” Frank managed to mumble between coughs. “Just some allergies.” His hacking seemed to die down a bit, and Frank grabbed the opportunity to gulp a lungful of air while he could. The closer Gerard got the more the coughs seem to fade, and it wasn’t until Gerard sighed a huge breath into Frank’s face that the itching in his throat completely faded away. 

“It’s gone,” Frank exclaimed, and Gerard shot him a weird look.

“Nice try.” Gerard scoffed, apparently thinking that this was some big scheme to get Frank’s bed back. “Get in there, I’ll take the floor.”

“No, I’m serious.” Frank frowned, grabbing Gerard in the least-weird way he could. “Blow in my nose or something. Trust me,” He added, when Gerard hesitated. But after a moment Gerard did it, uncomfortably exhaling onto Frank’s face. And Frank breathed it in, relishing in the breath and sighing it out pleasurably. He imagined this was what it felt like to smoke: a burning sensation with relief afterward. All signs of illness were gone, and quite frankly he felt better than he did before.

“You’re being weird.” Gerard pointed out, jabbing Frank with a finger. “Go back to sleep.”

Frank frowned, because right now he honestly felt as if he had the power to kill God. He had to get up – to do something with this weird ghost-drug Gerard had given him. And so, he formulated a stupid plan: “We’re going to the cemetery.”

“No,” Gerard said flatly. “We’re going to sleep.”

But Frank was already prying open the window and climbing out, leaving Gerard no choice but to follow. “I’ve never snuck out before.” Frank admitted as he leapt off the roof, wincing a little as his foot landed on a stick. “I’m pretty sure it’s going to be boring as fuck, though.”

“Mhm,” agreed Gerard as he jumped off after Frank, landing with significantly more dignity. “The graveyard at night: what could go wrong.”

“Fuck you.” Frank said, but in a compassionate way, as he brushed the dirt off his pants. The fall had hurt quite a bit, but he refused to let it show. “That’s the only thing around here that doesn’t involve death.” They were walking now, away from the dark, spindly house and into the sparse woods behind it. 

“Right, because what does a land of buried corpses have to do with death?” Despite being unfamiliar with the land, Gerard seemed to be leading the two in their journey through the woods. Frank huffed as they walked, swatting at the invisible things attacking his face. While harmless in the daytime, wayward branches and cobwebs were starting to be Frank’s greatest enemy.

The stars above them, however, were beautiful. Frank got caught up a small moment as he stared at them – it had been awhile since he’d seen the night sky. A few gray clouds covered most of the sky, but what light came through their gaps was breathtaking. In this moment, Frank couldn’t have looked at anything better.

Well, except for maybe one thing.

“There are more stars up there than my body count.” Frank announced to no one in particular, and Gerard turned his head to glance at him. He couldn’t really see the other in the dark, but the glint of eyes was enough for Frank to know what was going on.

“Yeah? And how many is that?” Gerard asked, pretending to sound innocently curious but Frank knew he was being teased.

“One-hundred million, including your future children.” Frank spat as Gerard laughed, shoving past the other roughly. It was all in good humor though, and Frank didn’t miss Gerard’s giggle as he watched Frank walk straight into a spider web.

What seemed to be an eternity of leaves later, the forest ended. Here, the woods opened up into a rough patch of tall grass. Frank was completely aware of the amount of ticks he was going to get in here and didn’t even care, gathering his shoulders into a manly stance and marching forward. Motherfuckers could just try and suck his blood!

Gerard had wandered off in another direction, and it took Frank a moment to find him. He was a few yards down, entranced by the carving of a tombstone. It was rather serene – the way that Gerard observed so quietly at night. 

“Look at this one, Frank.” Turning his head, Frank watched as Gerard brushed his fingers over the face of a stone angel. “She’s beautiful.

“I mean, if your type is dead then yeah, I guess it’s cute.” Frank shrugged, hearing Gerard’s indignant (but amused) huff behind him.

“I think she’s wonderful,” he said almost dreamily, and Frank scoffed.

Not wanting to hear Gerard swoon over a rock for any longer, Frank began to wander off. The cemetery was behind an 1800s schoolhouse that doubled as a church, as they often did back then. While it was easy for Frank to imagine the strong door that once kept so many out, all that was left in the front of the schoolhouse was a gaping mouth of a doorframe. Skipping the splintered fragments of wood, he crept inside, observing the arching ceiling and cobwebbed desks. The walls were painted in the neon colors of graffiti, and empty beer cans were scattered on the floor. Frank’s foot connected with one, sending it skittering away with a soft metal tink. 

And while Frank left to find Gerard, it hit him.

He’d just found a detailed piece of a naked woman and decided that if Gerard was slobbering over a tombstone he’d probably want to see this, but as Frank was calling out his voice failed him. Not in the sort of way you could just clear your throat and you’d be able to talk again, but rather, it had felt as if Frank’s lungs had just collapsed in. Any contact he’d had with air was long gone and Frank fell, grabbing haphazardly onto a bench in an attempt to stay upright. 

It was so sudden that Frank would have gasped, if he were able to.

Jesus, it felt as if he’d inhaled water. There was nothing coming in, and nothing going out. Just horrible, crushing asphyxiation. Frank was half sure this was how he was going to die: in the middle of the night, with a ghost, in a cemetery. Not exactly a death fit for a king, but it’d have to do.

Oh GOD, why couldn’t he breathe?

It hurt, it really did. The pain was excruciating, and Frank doubled over, finally falling to the ground. The chorus of crickets outside dropped to a low hum and Frank watched as his vision tunneled down a dark hole. He was going to pass out, and odds were that he wasn’t waking up. Not like this.


	6. Chapter 6

Mikey was cornered. Trapped, in a dark and frigid room, and sure as hell wasn’t the only one in there. He was, however, the prey, and tried to scream out in fear. Of course, nothing came out. It didn’t matter anyway; no one would hear him. 

Floorboards creaked ominously and Mikey clung to the sheets of his bed. His hands were clammy and rather unpleasant. They were coming closer – they’d found him. No, they’d never lost sight of him in the first place. They’d been watching this entire time, from day one. Mikey was doomed.

Ah, there it was. The glint of a knife: Mikey should have known. 

The predator tensed, reeling in like a snake before it struck. Mikey felt hot tears on his cheeks and a cold tremor down his spine as he shut his eyes and prepared for the blow. There was no point in running from death itself. 

Unless he killed it first –

Mikey awoke with a gasp. 

His hands were twisted firmly in the bedding around him and his hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. He was a mess, really: terrified of the world around him. 

Grabbing onto his shirt shakily, Mikey peeled it off and climbed out of Mr. Iero’s bed. It wasn’t Mikey’s bed – not now, not ever. He didn’t want anything to do with this wretched place.

Barely recognizing the symptoms of nausea in time, Mikey scrambled to the sink. His stomach heaved painfully but nothing came up as he gripped the counter, knuckles white with strain. After a few moments of hesitation, Mikey scrubbed a hand over his face and sat down on the bed, feeling rather ill. He was feeling claustrophobic despite (or maybe because of) the large black walls surrounding him, seeming to go on into darkness forever. Mikey needed to get out - he needed some air. 

He barely managed to throw on some jeans and a T-shirt before he was out the bedroom door, creeping through the tile floors and toward the door quietly. It wasn’t as if Mikey was afraid of waking Mr. Iero or his son (neither of which Mikey cared greatly for), but rather someone else. Something else. As if he and the Iero’s were never meant to be here in the first place.

The silhouette of a window was painted on the floor with light and Mikey slunk around it, avoiding the exposure as if he were a criminal. He couldn’t be seen, couldn’t get caught. Freezing air seemed to grab at him with every step he took and a distinct chill crawled down Mikey’s spine, making him shiver. It felt like ages before his hand was on the doorknob, turning and pushing until –

He was free.

The night air was cold, but somehow not as cold as the Grigg’s house was. Mikey felt greatly relieved to have made it, shutting the door behind him and trotting down the steps. He didn’t have any plans, he just needed to get away. For a little while, at least. 

It wasn’t exactly deathly quiet as Mikey strolled, listening to the night critters howl and chitter. They were all around him, supporting the ecosystem and preventing the Grigg’s house from eroding into the very cliff it was set behind. He wondered what the keystone species in this case was, because it couldn’t be the frog he was hearing, no? Frogs ate almost any insect, tended to the rivers, and were prey for almost all wildlife. But . . . 

Mikey was quickly distracted from his train of thought as his eyes caught on a light piece of fabric, snagged on the branches of a low-hanging tree. He immediately felt a prick of fear before waving it away. Despite being recent, the tracks were obviously leading in the other direction from Mikey. He followed them for a bit (in case the suspect was trying to walk backward to throw Mikey off and was secretly approaching him) but that method was quickly ended after the footsteps came to an abrupt stop by the house. They just . . . vanished.

Looking up, Mikey expected to see a ghost flying above him. Gerard, even, if he was lucky. Instead, he was met with an open window, curtains blowing lightly behind the open shutters. 

Frank, Mikey realized, partially relieved and partially more excited than he was a moment ago. Where he has gone? Surely, it had a voluntary leave. No one would kidnap Frank, would they?

Following the tracks (forward, this time) Mikey found that they lead into a trail, and then deep into the forest. And while the idea of wandering into a forest at night should have been terrifying, Mikey was much too curious to give up now. 

•••

It wasn’t long until Mikey found the body.

Frank was laid out on (what Mikey assumed to be) the floor of a church, clutching his chest. Whether he was alive or not, Mikey wasn’t sure.

The scene made it quite clear that Frank hadn’t been murdered. Unless there was extreme foul play in the sense of poison or gas, Frank had gotten himself in his situation all by himself. 

With a hesitant hand, Mikey picked up Frank’s wrist and held it to his ear, listening. There was a pulse – steady and bold. Frank was fine. Perhaps he had done drugs or drank alcohol, Mikey wasn’t sure. This was one of the many reasons he did neither of the two.

Placing the wrist back on the ground, Mikey studied Frank’s pale skin and wayward hair, slumped against the floor. He paused to think for a moment, before looping his arms around Frank’s knees and shoulders and hauling him into his arms.

This would make for some fucked up bridal-photos, he thought to himself.

Ah, it was going to be a long walk back. 

•••

Mikey wasn’t as tired as he should be when he got back to the Grigg’s house. Not knowing what else to do, he unceremoniously dumped Frank on the kitchen floor and left him to fight whatever demons lived here before retreating to his room. Well, not his room. Mikey didn’t want to call it that. But the room he slept in. 

Crawling back into the bed, he couldn’t seem to find his pillow. Mikey dug around in the dark for a few moments, before deciding to just swipe his limbs around randomly. Maybe it had fallen to the floor. Leaning on his stomach, Mikey gave the bed one last pat down before withdrawing his hand with a loud gasp.

Fuck, fuck. 

A sharp, stinging pain cut through Mikey’s palm as he grabbed his wrist, feeling the bloody mess spreading. It felt as if his whole arm was on fire – as if the skin had been peeled straight from the bone. Blinking back the tears in his eyes, Mikey fumbled with his nightstand until he found the light switch and turned on his lamp. 

A knife – his fucking knife was stuck into him. Jesus, he must have pushed his hand right into it. The blood welled beneath the lines of the injury, threatening to spill over the edge. Mikey thought he was going to be sick. 

This felt like something out of a nightmare, and the thought itself sent a cold chill down his spine.


	7. Chapter 7

“You totally freaked him out,” Pete stated as he placed another sticker on his juul. Lindsey was pretty sure the poor thing had more colors than the rainbow at this point. “He was like, super fine before you came.”

Lindsey shifted on Pete’s bed (Pete himself was on the windowsill) and looked him in the eye. “It was so not my fault. That kid is super shy – how was I supposed to know he’d freak out over one question?”

Pete’s ceiling fan whirred loudly above them – although pretty soon they wouldn’t need it. After three-am the temperature always dropped, and Lindsey would have to sneak back home. 

“Would it have been so hard to be quiet?” He sighed, running his fingers through his hair and Lindsey let out an indignant snort.

“You’re acting like I’m the bad guy! I’m the one who wants to save him from that place,” she huffed, kicking a foot in his direction. “That house is fucking weird, and he’s just a kid.” And, okay. That was maybe half of the reason. The other half was now that Pete was invested in this guy, so hanging out with this guy would mean hanging out with Pete. 

Sure, greasy, city-boy Pete wasn’t the best candidate in Lindsey’s romantic life. But he was better than Bob, at least. 

Putting down the bottle of whatever he was drinking, Pete walked over to Lindsey and sat heavily down on the bed. “God,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. By the way he was acting Pete must have felt more wasted than he looked. This was considering that he looked like shit, so things must have been bad. “Something’s weird about Mikey.”

“No shit,” Lindsey agreed, but Pete barreled on.

“I’m serious, Linds,” he told her matter-of-factly, with only the slightly slur between words. “I think he’s a little . . . mental.”

Lindsey shrugged, tilting her head and looking at Pete. Their eyes catch lazily, but she can’t break the gaze. Not now.

“What if you shut up about Mikey?” Lindsey proposed with a sigh, and then they were kissing. It was sloppy and gross, and Lindsey could taste Pete’s drink. It was nothing good, but she leaned into it anyway, letting his hands rest on her cheeks and lead the kiss. It’s what he always did. It didn’t mean anything.

It never meant anything.

Pete would do this – kisses and whispers, late night talks – without meaning anything around it. He just did it, because it was him. Lindsey knew that he didn’t like her the way she liked him, but she’d settled for what she’d gotten. Secrets were close enough to the truth when it came to relationships such as these. 

“I’m going home,” Lindsey muttered suddenly, gently pushing Pete away from her. “I’m gonna leave, now.”

Pete mumbled something along the lines of “but baby, we’re just getting started” as Lindsey threw her jacket back on and unlocked his bedroom door. She didn’t want to do this.

•••

Lindsey awoke with a pressing sense of guilt.

Fumbling to get her alarm clock off and her jeans on, she managed to miss the tiny note plastered to her bedroom window. The rain would later wash the note away, but she remained unaware, brushing back her ponytail and jogging downstairs. 

It was Ray’s morning to take the early shift, but Lindsey knew she was already late. The sun was high in the sky and the dew had already melted off the leaves by the time she made it down to the barn. Ray was restocking hay from the loft and Bob was . . . tying a rope to the ceiling rafters.

“He made a swing,” Ray said apologetically as Lindsey entered, and Bob nodded, looking rather proud of his work beside its odd resemblance to a noose.

“Huh, interesting,” she said, barely having time to criticize Bob before he was all over her, asking questions.

“Pete came over last night,” Bob began, immediately putting a sinking feeling into Lindsey’s stomach. “He said some weird stuff – I think he was really hammered. His eyes kept closing, like. The entire time.”

Lindsey bit her lip, thinking at a thousand miles a minute. Maybe Pete hadn’t mentioned anything. Maybe Bob didn’t know.

“I know about you and Pete.” Bob said finally.

“He told you?” Lindsey nearly cried, somehow managing to keep her voice down. Pete hated this as much as she did, so why would he do this? Why tell Bob?

The blonde just shrugged, going back to work on his swing. He was trying to fasten a wooden seat onto the rope with super glue, apparently. “It’s alright. I mean, I knew we weren’t actually getting married or anything. But a ‘heads up’ never hurts.” 

“It was a noose when I walked in.” Ray blurted suddenly, and Lindsey felt her stomach drop. Immediately, she grabbed Bob by both shoulders, shaking him.

“What the fuck,” she said as Bob wrenched himself free, because no, no one was allowed to kill themselves over this. “I am going to murder you.” Actually, she was going to murder Pete Wentz for flushing her out because she wouldn’t fuck him. Seriously, the guy was dead meat.

Bob put his hands up defensively, backing away. “It was a joke! I swear – you were supposed to come in and I’d be like, ‘Wow, Lindsey. Cheating on me, your true love,’ and then it’d be super funny and we’d all laugh. But fucking idiot Ray had to come in instead, so I told him it was a swing.”

“I truly fell for it,” Ray said earnestly, before dropping his gaze. “No, I didn’t.”

“You’re all fucking idiots.” Lindsey groaned, shaking her head and pinching the bridge of her nose. “Any other planned suicides I should know about? Rabid chickens, perhaps?

“Would it interest you that I accidentally set all the pigs loose?” Bob offered, flinching in case Lindsey decided to kill him. Which she was seriously considering at this point.

“How,” was all Lindsey could manage to ask. Because seriously, once those things got loose, they ran. 

Ray pointed to Bob’s noose. “That held the pig pen close.” 

“Of course it did.” Lindsey muttered.

**Author's Note:**

> the formatting got fucked cause i moved it from one file to another


End file.
